


Weep Not for the Memories

by ElloPoppet



Series: WinterHawk Bingo Square Fills - 2019 [4]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, BAMF Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Bucky Barnes-centric, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Cuddling & Snuggling, Except different, M/M, Minor Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Touch-Starved, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, WinterHawk Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 09:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20964167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: “Aw, fuck. You don’t look particularly friendly.”The prisoner’s voice matched his face; a bit brighter than it should be, overlaying something else more rugged and serious. The Soldier recognized the statement as being both honest while phrased as a quip; sarcasm settled in his ears and the Soldier felt an itch of pride at having been able to tell that the prisoner would be a smartass before even meeting him. All of the photos in his file had indicated as such. Honestly, who smirked as much as this guy?





	Weep Not for the Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Bingo fill for WinterHawk Bingo 2019
> 
> This is very outside of my typical hella fluffy, everyone lives happily in the tower fic. I struggled, but I finished this bitch and overall I'm happy with it! Pro Tip: Never try to fulfill a writing challenge in the midst of moving halfway across the United States (insert upside-down smiley face here).
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The emotionless words spat into the Soldier’s ear were Russian but as always, they unscrambled themselves inside of his brain until the message came across in English. It was by recognizing this process that the Soldier had convinced himself that his native language was English, American at that. 

It was the only real intel that he had deciphered about himself. How many times he had come to the conclusion, he would never know. Sometimes he remembered thoughts and ideas between scrubbings and freezings; other times, he figured, he came out a clean slate.

_”He functions under the command of the target. Do what you must to get what you can from him and then dispose of him quickly.”_

The solid metal door slammed closed behind him and the Soldier counted to three before flinching at the sound of the heavy locks bolting into place. He knew that their safety protocols were meant to hold not only the prisoner, but also himself.

The Soldier wondered if they had any clue how much strength he could wield in a pinch. How many times he thought about breaking out of their locked cells, how close he had come to doing just that and slaughtering every one of the Hydra scum before making his escape. The thoughts and urges came when they let him stay out of cryo for too long; they always seemed to know just when to wipe him and ice him. 

It would have to wait for another day. The Soldier was...interested in this prisoner. He was interested in his next target, rather. Steven Grant Rogers, code name Captain America. Based on the Soldier’s understanding this would be his most high profile job to date. With the impact that his killings had had on the history of the world over the last century, he knew that this was something next level. 

The expectations placed on him were higher than they’d ever been. If he did well, maybe Hydra would keep him out of cryo. Maybe they would let him hold onto his mind, create longer lasting memories. 

Maybe.

“Aw, fuck. You don’t look particularly friendly.” 

The prisoner’s voice matched his face; a bit brighter than it should be, overlaying something else more rugged and serious. The Soldier recognized the statement as being both honest while phrased as a quip; sarcasm settled in his ears and the Soldier felt an itch of pride at having been able to tell that the prisoner would be a smartass before even meeting him. All of the photos in his file had indicated as such. Honestly, who smirked as much as this guy? 

“Barton, Clinton Francis,” the Soldier spat stoically, inflection-less. “Aliases Ronin, Golden Archer, Goliath. Current code name Hawkeye, active Avengers Initiative special operative, member of Strike Team Delta, known simply as Clint by Steven Grant Rogers, code name Captain America.”

Barton blinked from where he was sitting on the ground, spine and shoulders against the far back wall of the cell, legs jutted straight out and crossed at the ankles. The Soldier spotted flashes of purple in the prisoner's ears. He appreciated that the Hydra operatives had allowed Barton to keep his hearing aids; he could use them as leverage if need be.

“Figures. You don’t sound all that friendly, either. More like a computer. That what you are? It would explain the-” Barton nodded his head sharply once toward the Soldier’s gleaming arm. 

“I am the Winter Soldier,” he announced. There was no reason not to disclose said information; it wouldn’t be leaving the room, so no matter. 

Finally, Barton’s face gave way to a reaction other than passive snarkery. His eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter, and his shoulders straightened. 

“Yeah, figured. You shot my best friend once, you know. I’m not what you would call a fan.” 

The Soldier felt an urge flicker from within, one that felt as foreign as most things had over the last handful of decades; he nearly _rolled his eyes_. 

“Affirmative. The Widow.”

Barton snorted. The Soldier tilted his head quizzically. He was not used to...that.

“Yeah, try not to sound so apologetic,” Barton remarked flippantly. The Soldier tracked him with laser precision as he lifted a hand to his forehead, before dragging his palm over his face and making circles over his cheeks, coloring them with new blood flow. Whether his actions were out of exasperation or feeling cold, the Soldier could not pinpoint. 

Barton sighed and leaned forward, bracing a hand on his own knee to help himself spring to his feet. The Soldier dug his heels into the ground beneath his boots; would this fool truly try to outmaneuver him?

“So, I’m guessing this is about Steve which, of course it is. I don’t know what you want with me, though. I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. I mean shit, you pulled out the futzing _Goliath_ card. You probably know more about me than I know about myself.” Barton licked his lips and leaned back against the wall, now standing. “Actually, bro, I have a question for you.”

The Soldier’s interest in the prisoner expanded tenfold, causing his brain to zip and zap unpleasantly. Vesting an interest in a kill-on-command target? That was wrong, it wasn’t even within the boundaries of his programming. 

“Go on,” the Soldier responded, clamping his jaw shut immediately after the words slipped through his lips. He hadn’t meant to say them. 

The Soldier’s right fingers twitched at his side in annoyance.

“It’s a two parter, actually. One, are you really gonna kill your best friend for some no good, ugly Nazi fucks? And B, if that’s the plan, why the fuck, Barnes?”

The Soldier’s twitching fingers froze. Distantly, he felt his jaw go slack while the rest of him seized up, locked into position. 

“Как ты меня назвал?” The Soldier breathed, barely able to hear himself over the pounding of blood in his ears. _”What did you call me?”_

Barton cocked his head and his eyes became calculating, something hard flashing. The Soldier hadn’t seen that look in his file, and it did something to calm his racing mind. Hard and calculating was something that he was intimate with, inside and out, rather than the...familiarity that the prisoner had weaponized against him just moments before. 

Barton licked his lips, eyes flickering as though reading invisible words in the air, as though mapping what to do next. When he made his choice, Barton locked eyes with the Soldier.

“I called you Barnes. It’s your name, so. I was shooting at politeness.” 

The Soldier remained still. The zapping in his brain, electrical impulses igniting from one side to the other within his skull, worsened. Fragments of sounds_voices_ broke through the recesses of memory, barraging the Soldier from all internal directions. 

_”Sergeant Barnes, a little help over here?!_  
_”Don’t sass me, Barnes. I’m small but I can take you any day, pal._  
_”Barnes**unintelligible**...tags say 107th...he’ll do just fine...limb nearly prepared…_  
_”...Rebecca Barnes! Leave your brother be, you hear?”_

“Хотите знать ваше полное имя?” Barton’s voice sliced through the fog of voices and the Soldier felt his head quirk upward. He felt a swell of shame rise up in his gut as a tear fell unbidden down his cheek with the movement. _”Want to know your full name?_

The Soldier nodded. 

“James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th, 1917 to Winnifred and George Barnes. Older brother to Rebecca Barnes. According to Steve, you called her Becca. Well, I’m sure he did too, since he was practically your Ma’s third kid. Enlisted in the 107th in 1943, they called you Sergeant Barnes, if that rings any bells. Or you know, most people, even today in the history books and museums and whatnot, they call you Bu-”

**”NO,”** the Soldier _(barnesbarnesjamesbuchananBARNES)_ commanded, and Barton did just that, clamping his mouth shut mid-sentence. Barnes didn’t know why, but he couldn’t stand to hear another word; too much, at once, and the memories were _there_, struggling to burst to the surface, and they _fucking hurt_. 

The prisoner was causing Barnes to feel a multitude of awful, disdainful feelings, the most disdainful of them all being _hope_.

It wasn’t worth it. He would find Rogers some other way. 

The command that Barnes_(no, Soldier. Soldat, you are theirs)_ gave his body was a familiar one, and with the intention to kill he broke free of the iron vice of stillness, crossing the space between himself and Barton in two quick strides. His hands. He wanted to use his hands, wrap them around Barton’s milky throat in an intimate way that he had never wished to kill before…

The metal of his prosthetic had only just wrapped around Barton’s throat, pushing him hard into the wall, when the prisoner started to speak a random assortment of words. Confused, the Soldier glared into the prisoner’s eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or challenge; simply pure calm and determination. 

“Antipathy”  
“Renewed”  
“Freezer”  
“Nightfall”  
“Seventy-One”  
“Menacing”  
“Ordinal”  
“Departure”  
“Nil”  
“Wagon-lit.”

Barnes _breathed_.

“That’s it,” Barton said, sounding soothing but still eyeing Barnes as a potential threat. Smart. Barton raised a hand up slowly to wrap around the metal hand still at his throat, lacking pressure and easily moved. Barnes let his arm fall to his side; it felt heavy, heavier than he could ever remember it feeling...not that his memory was something to be admired. 

Barnes relished in the feeling of chains unraveling from his core, freeing aches and pains that he hadn’t realized he was carrying. The urge to kill the pris-Barton had disappeared, replaced with an urge to ask a thousand questions about...everything. Steve. Becca. Hydra. But mainly…

“...how?” Barnes’ voice cracked and even to his own ears he sounded younger, weary, lost. Barton took a deep breath and suddenly started laughing. It was bright, loud, and genuine and Christ, how long had it been since Barnes had witnessed another human being overcome in such a way?

“Futzing goddammit all, Stark is an annoying asshole but nobody can say he’s faking the genius gig,” Barton said, lacing his hands together and stretching them high above his head. He rolled his neck from side to side and when he stopped moving, Barnes could tell that he looked much more relaxed. Ah. He had been laughing out of relief, most likely.

Barnes had forgot about that part. The joy of being alive.

“Stark?” Barnes found himself asking. His long hair hung further into his eyes, and he found himself tucking it back behind his ears without thought. Barton tracked the movement and _whistled_. Barnes froze.

“Damn. Those history books don’t do you justice, Barnes. Just sayin’. I don’t know whose older here, technically, but a good shower and a fraction of the eyeliner you typically have smeared all over your face and you’ll be batting the girls away. When we get outta here, of course.” Barton winked in Barnes’ direction.

Barnes felt his face grow hot. Why? He hadn’t blushed in…

“But anyway, not smart of me to wax poetic about a possibly homophobic and very recently de-programmed Fist of Hydra when for all intents and purposes I am still locked in this room with you. Stark, right. Tony, not the Stark you knew. His offspring.” Barnes watched as Barton spoke, surely and quick with an energy that would not have been so...endearing just a few minutes prior. 

Barnes’ head spun with input, memories, information hitting him as though it were being downloaded. He wanted to scramble for them, wanted to be able to summon specific memories at will. What he got instead were images of Howard Stark and floating cars, Howard Stark and science labs, Howard Stark dead and slumped against a smoking car-

“Fuck,” Barnes gasped. “I killed Howard. I killed him, and his kid...his kid did this? Tony?” Barnes knew who Tony Stark was. The Soldier had known years prior to opening a file on Steve, because everyone knew about Tony Stark, one way or another. “Why would he want to help me?” Barnes looked back up at Barton. “How did he know you would be captured?”

Barton’s eyes widened. “Wait. You think I got caught on accident?”

Barnes not only smiled at that, but he _grinned_. The stretch wasn’t foreign on his face; he’d had to do a lot of faking, a lot of acting like a person. The legitimate feeling of glee that accompanied the grin? That felt brand new. 

“I shoulda known,” Barnes said. “Your file didn’t make you seem like someone who would fall into a trap.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Barton said, now walking around the room. “And also, once we realized who you were, as in who you actually were, and what must have happened to you to turn you into the Winter Soldier...Tony knows it wasn’t you. Not really. And even though I said he was an asshole he’s still a good person I guess. Just don’t tell him that I told you that.”

The thought of leaving this place on his own accord lit a small fuse of panic; how did Barton think they would manage that? He pushed the thought aside, choosing instead to watch Barton push against the stone walls. 

“So it was an act in the beginning? Not knowing who I was?” Barnes asked. “Because I feel like I should be kinda ashamed of myself. I can usually spot a bullshitter.”

Barton winked at him again. “I sense either a beautiful friendship or a really intense rivalry budding here,” he joked, and his smile was illuminating, possibly the most glorious thing Barnes had seen in decades. His heart fluttered in his chest, something both warm, unpleasant and slightly nauseating all at once. 

“So we have to hang out here for a bit longer before they get to us,” Barton was saying, and Barnes forced himself to focus. “I’m glad there aren’t any windows in here, no bugs either. Kind of surprising though. They must really trust you to get the job done.”

Barnes nodded. “They do. They would have gotten every detail from me before throwing me in the chair. Oh,” Barnes said, recognizing confusion on Barton’s face. “That’s how they maintained me. Memory wipes and cryo.”

Something complicated fluttered over Barton’s face, and he eventually landed on a mix between furious and sympathetic. “Well. That’s some awful fuckery. Though kinda close to what we’d guessed, what Tony and Bruce guessed at lea-”

“Wait. Did you say that someone is coming here?” Barnes interrupted, his brain still playing catch up. “Who is coming here?”

Barton blinked. “Uh, my team? The Avengers, et al. You may have heard of us?” Barton was snarky and sarcastic while lacking in cruelty. 

Barnes like it. He liked _him_. Barnes hadn’t liked someone in nearly eighty years. And he had almost killed him. 

It was that thought that did it, caused Barnes’ knees to buckle beneath him. His right knee popped painfully as it hit the concrete, and Barnes could feel it beginning to heal immediately. 

“Hey, whoa. What’s happening? Honestly, I expected something dramatic when you snapped out of it but you seemed alright…” Barton started mumbling under his breath as he approached Barnes, kneeling in front of him on the floor. “Aw, hey. No. You’re shaking. It’s gonna be alright, man. Our plan to bust us outta here? Foolproof. A few more hours in here and Steve’ll burst through that door, all red white and blue and heroic and shit, and you’ll get to leave. And we’ll help you adjust, Fury will probably mandate therapy because he loves to do that shit-”

“I was going to kill you,” Barnes stated. “Barton, I was going to strangle you against that wall and leave your body in this room for disposal. And I wouldn’t have cared, I-” Barnes struggled to breathe, the room closing in on him and oh, he remembered this feeling of panic...he hadn’t missed it. 

“Hey, hey. I’m going to touch you so don’t, like, throw me across the room. And also, call me Clint, or Hawkeye, I don’t really care but this doesn’t feel like a last-name situation anymore,” Barton -Clint- said. He made good on his warning, placing a hand on either of Barnes’ shoulders. The touch was light and warm, soothing, something comforting and oh _god_ he needed it, something nice and loving…

“Yeah, that’s it, dude. C’mere,” Clint said softly when Barnes leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Clint’s chest. Clint’s hands moved from his shoulders to his back, where they rubbed slowly over his spine. Barnes’ breath started to even out and they remained there for either a few long seconds, minutes, or perhaps an hour - Barnes, still lost within himself, couldn’t quite tell. 

“You could have killed me the second you walked into this room,” Clint whispered after time passed, breaking the silence. “You could have snapped my neck before I said the words. You didn’t. And you won’t hurt me now, so let’s forget about it and just figure that it’s a real interesting start to our beautiful friendship.”

The first lovely human contact Barnes had made in decades, and it was with someone far too good for him. Figured. 

Barnes nodded, his hair scrunching against Clint’s chest. Clint squeezed Barnes’ shoulders and moved back, Barnes mimicking the action, swaying as he did so.

“Jesus. You look dead on your feet,” Clint said. He nodded toward the pathetically thin mat shoved into one corner. “Go use the lovely Hydra prisoner accommodations. How sweet that they provide such luxurious sleeping options.”

Barnes snorted, which hurt a little, but it made Clint smile at him goofily. So it was okay. 

“Yeah, alright,” Barnes said, standing and going to unroll the mat. “I never wanted to sleep, before. Spent so much time frozen, didn’t wanna miss anything. Hated the thought of sleep. But it sounds,” Barnes struggled. “It sounds real inviting right now.”

“Makes sense,” Clint said, getting to his feet and nodding. “Also, the more you talk, the more Brooklyn you sound. Not sure if you noticed.”

Barnes hadn’t, but the thought warmed him. He removed his top layer of gear and piled his weapons and straps at the bottom of where the mat rested, still slightly curled. The level of trust that he was placing in Clint’s hands was monumental, he realized this, and found that he enjoyed choosing for himself to simply not care. 

When Barnes laid on the mat, he found that it provided a bit more comfort than he had expected and his eyes began to droop almost immediately. He turned his head to look for Clint, who he found propping himself into a corner, shuffling around to try to get comfortable. 

“There’s no way you’re gonna be comfortable like that,” Barnes said. Clint met his eyes and shrugged. 

“Don’t need to be comfortable to keep watch.”

Barnes hesitated. He wouldn’t sleep either if he were Clint, and he wasn’t going to argue the matter or try to convince Clint otherwise. 

“Come keep watch from over here?” 

Clint raised both eyebrows as he held Barnes’ gaze, debating, wondering. Barnes watched a flush creep up Clint’s throat and make its way to his cheeks. Barnes’ heart missed a beat.

“Aw, fuck it,” Clint said, rocking into a standing position and taking the few steps toward Barnes. He sat down next to the mat, criss-cross-applesauce, and Barnes pointedly scooched over, making room on the mat, which was smaller than a prison cot. 

“Lay with me?” Barnes asked. “I know it’s weird and all, but all of that human contact from earlier was real, real good, and if you’re comfortable…” Barnes trailed off, realizing that he wasn’t sure exactly how weird his request was. They had done a lot of bed sharing, body-warmth and blanket sharing in the army, but this wasn’t the army and Clint wasn’t his brother-in-arms. 

“Welp, I can’t really deny you that, can I?” Clint said, and Barnes opened his mouth to tell Clint never mind, he didn’t have to, but Clint was smirking down at him. They shuffled and tried to fit side by side on the sad little mat. When it became obvious that it wasn’t going to happen, Barnes huffed.

He _wanted this_, god. Wanted closeness. 

“Dammit. Come here,” Barnes said, laying on his back and reaching over to tuck Clint into the crook of his arm, Clint’s head resting on his shoulder, Clint’s hand coming to rest naturally on Barnes’ abdomen. 

“Oh,” Clint sighed, and Barnes felt his breath on his throat. “You’re a lot more...comfortable than you look.”

“I’m glad,” Barnes said. He swallowed, bringing his metal arm up and around Clint’s back, resting it on Clint’s hip. Clint didn’t move away; rather, he moved closer. 

“Wouldn’ta pegged you for a cuddler,” Clint muttered, sounding amused. Barnes laughed.

“You know my file, but don’t know a whole lot about me,” he said, and Clint made a sound of agreement. 

“That’s true.” Silence for a few beats, and then, “Would it be too much to say that I’m looking forward to getting to know a whole lot about you?”

Barnes closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. He was starting to remember this, he thought, this feeling in his chest, extending through the rest of his body. 

Almost on instinct, Barnes leaned down and placed a kiss into the mess that was Clint’s hair. 

“Not too much. Sounds nice. You just gotta tell me if I’m bein’ weird. I don’t know how to…”

“How to people?” Clint finished, and Barton smiled. 

“Yeah. How to people.”

Clint burrowed somehow further, and Barnes tightened his grip on Clint’s hip, bringing his flesh hand up to cover Clint’s on his stomach. Without missing a beat, Clint turned his palm up to meet Barnes'. 

“I think you’re doing a spectacular job,” Clint said lowly, moving in to press his lips against the flesh of Barnes’ throat. It lasted no more than a second, two at the most, but Barnes’ entire body shivered. 

“Call me Bucky?” he asked, the name burning something like molten sugar as it left his lips. 

Clint squeezed Bucky’s hand. “You got it.” Pecked his throat again. 

“Get some sleep, Bucky.”

For the first time in a long time, it was effortless for Bucky to comply.

**Author's Note:**

> Bingo Square: Sharing A Bed


End file.
